


Sinners and Saints

by onetiredboy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bastard angel, M/M, Neither of them are pure and I just wanted to show it off, Seven Deadly Sins, Seven Heavenly Virtues, good demon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 16:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19430212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetiredboy/pseuds/onetiredboy
Summary: 7 times Aziraphale sinned, and 7 times Crowley was quite almost a saint. A collection of oneshots of Aziraphale and Crowley ultimately failing to do their jobs very well.





	Sinners and Saints

It’s late at night in London’s Soho. The sound of drunken singing can be heard from a pub several streets over, chopped up through the torrential rain and squeal of taxi breaks as they swerve out of the way of leering college students and football fans.

“I don’t think,” slurs a solidly wasted angel, from his armchair in the back room of a closed bookshop, “Don’t think you’re m’getting the… the point.”

“Whasssat?” frowns an equally smashed demon, who is holding a bottle of red in his hands and trying very, very hard to get the world to stop spinning enough to read the name on it.

“I…” Aziraphale’s eyebrows knit together. He’s silent for a long moment, then he sighs, “Oh, I dunno. I donn care.”

A worry that is always on Aziraphale’s mind when he begins drinking with Crowley is that one of these days he’s going to end up saying something, letting something slip, that might ruin everything. 6000 years of a closely guarded friendship means that secrets tend to build. So he’s learnt to drink solidly past the point of late-night confession and quickly into the point of barely comprehensible dribble without giving himself any spare moment to embarrass himself.

“Want another drink?” Crowley asks. He stands up from the couch and immediately stumbles back into it. He stares at the cushions under his hands and knees for a moment, and then giggles.

“Mmgh,” Aziraphale leans back into his chair, “Oh, why not… not got anywhere to go tom—tommmmm—orrow. I’ll just keep th’shop shut.”

He waves his arm in the air like a stoned conductor, and across the room a bottle of red lifts and begins floating over. Aziraphale closes his eyes and sighs as the glasses begin to fill themselves. He is beginning to feel dreadfully tired.

Crowley snorts. “Angel,” he slurs.

Aziraphale pulls one eye open, “Mm?”

“You—y’nnow, I’m gettin’ just the tiniessst… tincccciest tiniesssst ssssmallessst tiniesssst tiny tiny tiny tiny… tiny tiny… tiny…” Crowley’s snake eyes begin to drift away, and then suddenly refocus on him. “Sssloth,” he hisses.

Aziraphale opens both eyes and sits up, “Crowley!”

“Yeah!” Crowley grins wide like he’s just discovered something very, very pleasing, “Yeah! I’m getting sssloth sssensesss. My ssslothy sssensesss are tingling, from the sssseven deadly ssssssssins, baby.”

“That’s not funny,” Aziraphale tells him, his voice slightly higher pitched with distress, “Stop it.”

Crowley points at him from the couch, “Ssssinner.”

“Stop it!” Aziraphale stands up. The alcohol drains out of him instantly – he doesn’t even bother trying to put it back into the bottle.

Crowley pulls himself into a sitting position on the couch, staring at him wobblily like a child trying to figure out why he’s in trouble. Then Aziraphale watches as the wobble gets taken out of him, his eyes refocus. Crowley reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and puts on his sunglasses.

“Sorry,” he mutters, his ‘s’ sounds returning to their usual, only half-pulled out length. Aziraphale is somewhat offended that he can’t even be serious enough about apologising to lose the stupid snake lisp thing.

“I’m—” Aziraphale huffs, turning away from Crowley and re-straightening his bowtie.

“Angel,” Crowley is suddenly beside him, and he puts a hand on his shoulder, “Look—”

Aziraphale shakes his hand off and turns further away. He is an _angel_ , and the idea of being accused of sinning is mortifyingly, almost irreparably insulting. Especially when it’s true.

Crowley sighs, “Shit. I’ll… I’ll let myself out.”

With every step Crowley takes away from him, Aziraphale feels his world get a little bit colder, a little bit lonelier.

He lets him go.


End file.
